


Shiny Disco Balls

by cjmarlowe



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Club Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1392547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/pseuds/cjmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it weren't for Ian, he wouldn't come anywhere near this fucking place. If it weren't for Ian, Mickey wouldn't do a lot of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shiny Disco Balls

**Author's Note:**

> Vague spoilers up to 4x09.

Mickey hates this music, these pounding beats that fuck with the rhythm of his heart and throb in his head before he finishes his first drink. If it weren't for Ian, he wouldn't come anywhere near this fucking place. Not this club, not Boystown at all. This isn't who he fucking is.

If it weren't for Ian, Mickey wouldn't do a lot of things.

Ian's not wrong about those fucking camo shorts he made—the guys at the club eat them up. And not just the saggy, grey-haired assmunchers either. The kid eyefucking him now, the one who looks like he wants to lick Ian's cock like it sprays ice cream or something, he can't be much older than Ian is. Mickey scowls at him and gives him the finger, but doesn't bother busting a knuckle on his face. He looks like he has cash to spare and is getting off on tucking it into Ian's shorts, and Ian told him flat out he needs to make rent this month since Fiona sure as hell isn't going to.

It doesn't turn him on, watching Ian dance. Mickey sits in there at the bar or leaning against the furniture and all he can think as he watches him and as he watches everyone else watching him is how he needs to keep Ian safe, how they need to stay alive. How he needs to know everything that's going on in the room because Ian sure as hell doesn't. Best he gets is a semi, because he does like muscles and cock and there's a whole lot of that around him right now.

It's the fucking lap dancing that he really hates, Ian rubbing up on a bunch of fucking faggots who can't get it on their own. Mickey gets paying for it, it's his fucking livelihood, but this is Ian and Ian is nobody's whore. He watches anyway. He has to. Keep Ian safe. Keep Ian alive. No matter what it fucking takes.

"Your turn," says Ian, coming up to him finally, hooking a finger through Mickey's beltloop and starting to draw him towards the plush seats.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" says Mickey.

"I promise not to charge you."

"You're fucking right you won't charge me. But you think I'm gonna let you grind all up on me, in front of all these people?"

"Who cares?" says Ian. "They don't care."

"I care," says Mickey. "Because it won't be just some bump and grind. You get that close to me with that dick, and we're _both_ getting off."

"No one will ever know," says Ian, but he's looking past Mickey now, left and right, and Mickey figures he's trying to come up with a better plan. Hard to tell with Ian these days, he could've just been distracted by some fucking shiny thing. He's on something but Mickey's not sure what, the only thing they've ever done together is smoked weed, since Mickey never was one for sampling the merchandise. Much.

"What the fuck are you talking about, they'll all fucking know," he says, right before Ian starts tugging him in the opposite direction, towards the men's room. "Seriously? Are we really fucking doing that?"

"You want me to fuck you or not?"

Mickey isn't worried about them being the first guys to fuck in the stalls of the men's room. Or ladies' room. Or any other part of the club, for that matter. He's worried there'll be a fucking _line_ for the primo location, and he isn't one for waiting.

Ian ignores everyone along the way and they don't get hassled for it, which Mickey figures is a perk of everyone in the place wanting your ass, and takes Mickey by the wrist and hauls him into a just-vacated stall, slamming the door behind them. If there are any complaints, Mickey never fucking hears them. All he gives a fuck about after that is the way Ian is undoing his belt and dropping his jeans and shoving him up against the door.

"Hurry up, hurry up," he mutters.

"I'll do it however I want," says Ian, and Mickey is never going to admit how much that fucking turns him on.

"What you want better be to get off with me before it's been so long those fucking geriatric stock brokers out there start turning you on."

"Shut up," says Ian, kicking Mickey's feet apart and sticking a couple of fingers in his ass like he even needs that. "One of these days I'm going to get my whole hand in here."

Jesus _Christ_ , now Mickey's going to be thinking about that all night.

"Just fuck me," he says, breathy already, and Ian does, gripping his hips and shoving in hard, the way Mickey likes it. They're shaking the fucking door and there's no way anybody out there doesn't know what they're doing and how they're doing it but they're probably all in here to do the same damn thing anyway and nobody here's gonna try to cave Mickey's head in for fucking a guy.

Ian leaves one hand on Mickey's bare hip, presses the other over the hand that Mickey has braced against the door, running a thumb over his knuckles. Mickey grits his teeth to keep from letting out any unnecessary noise, reaches down and wraps a hand around his own cock, working it while Ian thrusts into him.

They don't tease, don't play, don't make conversation. They just breathe and they fuck and Mickey sucks the most he can out of every fucking moment of it because you never know when something is going to be taken away from you. They know how to do this fast and hard, months and years of stolen moments wherever they could take them.

Ian's not quiet when he comes, not a cry or a shout but a groan from deep in his chest, his hand tightening around Mickey's so tightly it's painful. Mickey keeps jerking his cock, coming against the back of the door in the same place he's sure dozens of guys have come before him.

He feels Ian breathing against the side of his neck, and realizes that for just a second he thought Ian was going to kiss him there. But then Ian pulls his head away instead, and pulls out, one hand still holding Mickey's against the stall door as he grabs a wad of toilet paper and cleans them up.

"I gotta get back to work," says Ian, finally stepping back. Mickey quickly pulls his jeans up, grabs another wad of paper to clean up the door before it starts dripping onto the god damn floor. "You staying to the end of my shift?"

"I guess," says Mickey, pushing his hair back and rubbing the palms is his hands briskly against the thighs of his jeans. Ian still looks completely fucking put together, just with a sheen of sweat now that's gonna make him some extra bucks when he gets back out there. Mickey hasn't been around this place long but he has their fucking number already.

"Good," says Ian. "Lots of places we can go aft—"

"No, no fucking after," says Mickey, turning around to face him and resting a closed hand against his bare chest. "We're going home after. You get me?" 

Ian hesitates, then gives Mickey a smile he can't quite read. "Yeah, I get you," he says. "Sure, we can do that."

At least it's agreement, so Mickey'll take it. He'll take what he can get. That's the fucking name of the game these days anyway. He pounds his hand lightly against Ian's chest, Ian still smiling at him, and reaches behind himself to open the stall door.

"Next!" he calls out belligerently, because if he's gonna do it he's gonna fucking own it, the beat infecting his footsteps as he leads Ian back out into the club.


End file.
